


Odio et amo

by Zefferus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Don't copy to another site, Love them, M/M, Mycroft tried very hard not to swoon, Pining, Pre-Slash, Self-Denial, aw yis, greg's white shirt is a sin, must not kiss, no Yes NO, then the feelings all rushed back to run Mycroft over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-07 15:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zefferus/pseuds/Zefferus
Summary: Greg was doing a weekend holiday at countryside.Out of some reasons, Mycroft Holmes showed up in his usual cloak and suits, much to his surprised gratification, whereas Mycroft was entirely stunned by the white-shirt man walking towards him.





	Odio et amo

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, look at this amazing [GIF](https://mystrade-lestradeandrupertgraves.tumblr.com/post/88762357957/grundycat-i-dont-even-care-what-the-fuck-hes) set and see what I mean. LOOK.
> 
> Quoted by Grundycat, "I don’t even care what the fuck he’s saying, but I can’t stop staring at him"

The exclamation of pleasant surprise.

Lestrade was listening intently to him then, as though their courtesy exchange here by the quiet country roadside miraculously held all the utmost important secrets in the world. His eyes were crinkling at the corners, filled with gentle amusement. A cheerful manner.

Mycroft did not miss how the man’s dark eyes then flicked over his appearance, taking in his silver watch chain, down to the black Oxford leather, then rolling back up to stare right into Mycroft's soul with darkening gaze.

The 'minor' government official readjusted his grip on his umbrella. Not even a gulp. He refused to show how blatant the vexing effect of Greg Lestrade on his poor sanity.

Not even when a clawing part of him longed to close the distance, to give in to the maddening, worse desire— to press his lips against that exposed, glorious curve between the magnificent neck and broad shoulder. To merely nuzzle against skin, and breath. Let out the noise. To familiarize with the temperature difference between that lazily glittering gold chain necklace and the warm, breathing, inviting flesh.

Mycroft's heart thudded hard in his chest.

That breezy white linen shirt by itself was qualified as severe sin.

_Perfect to be tugged playfully or just be ripped off_. A traitorous voice whispered. His fingers twitched once. No. _Yes_. NO.

Momentarily dizzy with a stab of want, followed by apprehension, Mycroft hoped faintly that his diplomatic skills went on autopilot would not fail him in this instant. He pushed a smile it hurt a little, delivered back smooth reply. Madness lie in longing for the conversation to end soon or be endless.

The conversation continued in one party being floating-dipping the ground. Seemingly all was right. Until out of sudden the silver-haired man dropped his humorous smile from his face. Eyes narrowed. Gods rising behind them.

Greg Lestrade frowned solemnly at him, the swift confusion between the brows had already dissolved into mild offended disbelief, much to Mycroft's alarmed bewilderment. Lestrade was searching his eyes then for an answer Mycroft could not provide—how does one find a key for a nonexistent box?

Yet barely a moment passed, the man in doubt seemed to have reached his own exasperated conclusion.

Locking their eyes, Lestrade stiffened his stance and gruffed out:

"Yep, and you would think that, wouldn't you?”

Mycroft widened his eyes, albeit mildly. Much as his reluctance to challenge the boundary of friendship—_inadvisable, very unwise, the protocols_—he did not seek to actively aggravate the Detective Inspector. But apparently he had offended the man while his mind gears failed him in short memory terms.

"Mycroft," The British Government's budded panic heart stuttered into shocked blank silence, whereas the Detective Inspector pressed his own lips into thin line, appeared to be entranced by his own voice over the first time speaking Mycroft's first name.

Then the policemen recovered in a blink—

“Nope,” Greg Lestrade spoke with a slight twist of his head, the single word carried such finality. Those frowning sincere chocolate eyes flicked back to his and pinned Mycroft in the place, held him, grasped his arms, implored at him, wishing him to understand—Mycroft was barely breathing and nearly detonated by then—

"Surely you should know."

"I- beg your pardon?"

“Sherlock is an idiot.”

“...”

What?

Mycroft would deny fervently to the Heaven and Earth, even to the mentioned Devil, much to himself later, that for one second, Mycroft Holmes was absolutely not trying to imitate a dying goldfish, stranded on the cursed land.

To save his fraying dignity, the British Government persona promptly cleared his throat.

He took a deep breath, furiously flipping through the Notebook in mind, to look for an eloquent, succinct answer, then reaching and grabbed it in one life-saving pull, Mycroft replied,

“Yes.” 

_Indeed, death_.

By sheer mortification, previously deemed impossible, was looming ahead.

Greg Lestrade snorted in his continued incredulous state, ignorant to Mycroft's hysterical dying wish, too occupied in dissing out his assessment, “I mean, I KnOW he's brilliant, genius but sometimes I would just be so willing to testify in the court— your brother is as blind as his gigantic ego.” That gorgeous man was practically throwing out a huff now, “Seriously, why would he say that and you would hold that true to yourself, Mycroft?”

“I, I am afraid I—”

"You don't need a diet, Mycroft."

Greg Lestrade reached for the dark throne within the solitude castle - and yanked him out into the light.

**"You're beautiful and fit as hell as you are."**

The wintry world had long since screeched to an abrupt halt.

Mycroft was frozen,

——he started blinking like an owl.

The instigator of his recent dilemma had made an announcement.

Gregory Lestrade saw him. _Sees_ him.

And he thought he's beautiful.

Gregory flashed Mycroft his white-toothed pleased grin, which miraculously retained that boyish uncertainty, and Mycroft Holmes cemented his early grave right then.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you miss it... [GIF](https://mystrade-lestradeandrupertgraves.tumblr.com/post/88762357957/grundycat-i-dont-even-care-what-the-fuck-hes) This fic is entirely based on the shift sequence of Rupert Graves's intriguing expression and those damn-expressive eyes. Best inspiration. 10/10 recommended for non-stop staring.


End file.
